


But He Has His Mother's Eyes

by Mimca



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Ficlet, Gen, Rape/Non-con Elements, it's implied in one line but better be safe than sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-10-01 16:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimca/pseuds/Mimca
Summary: Galahad has grown up with his mother and the ideal she has built of his father, Lancelot; but when the time comes for them to meet at the Round Table, it does not turn out as well as the Pure Knight had expected it. In fact, Galahad gets the very strange feeling that Lancelot hates him.





	But He Has His Mother's Eyes

“May I speak to you, Sir Lancelot?”  
  
Lancelot halted his horse as Galahad met him on foot. The young knight’s bare head just reached the mount’s shoulder and, seeing him like that, this white armor covered in rust like the many golden scars of battles past; he could understand why he was so admired by everyone at the Round Table.  
  
Galahad had not grown with his father by his side, but he had always thought the memories his mother had, just as good as his physical presence. Elaine never spoke of the circumstances behind his conception, but would chronicle as they came to Corbenic the–_slightly_ snowballed–tales of his exploits. Once a ghost murdered in some splendid battle, once reincarnated as some prince’s champion: to be the greatest knight in the world had become a mere extension of Lancelot du Lac’s name.  
  
As he became of age, Galahad looked forward to meeting him.  
  
It turned out, however, that father-son relationships were not part of Lancelot’s tactics. The knight was not reputed to be sociable. His words were rare, elected, and his smiles even rarer; but if Elaine’s stories were true, it was only out of courtesy, erasing himself when letting the King’s Law speak through his mouth. So it came as a great surprise to Galahad, when he, as a simple squire, had sat in the Siege Perilous and had looked at his father, to see the mighty knight visibly _recoil_ at his gaze.  
  
At this point in time, what he felt was a foreign emotion to Galahad, so he did not dwell on it much.  
  
Until Gareth.  
  
Gareth had the blood-red hair of his brothers, and this shine in his eyes, just waiting for the glory his own death would bring. Galahad had learned to despise this idea, and did not think much of the squire. Of course, he had been here when came the younger Orkney’s turn to be knighted. But when he kneeled in front of Lancelot, something sunk inside his chest. He had been told he had his father’s chest, made too broad to be able to carry a heart so big; but at this moment, he just felt the emptiness of it. And as Lancelot girded the sword on Gareth’s left side, the scarred hands running across the fair white skin, he felt his cheeks warming. He realized–may God forgive him!  
  
He was _jealous_ of Gareth.  
  
That was what tormented Galahad, and he knew he would not find peace before he could open his heart to Lancelot. It would be his only opportunity before long: the knight never remained at Camelot longer than needed. All knew the reason behind the self-imposed exile. Galahad himself did not ignore it.  
  
“How may I help you, Sir Galahad?” Though polite, his gaze barely grazed the younger knight’s head.  
  
“I wished to speak about the knighting ceremony–”  
  
“My presence had been requested by the King,” Lancelot cut in.  
  
“As I recall, you were absent when I became a knight.”  
  
“My presence had not been requested, then.”  
  
“I believe it was the custom that the King was the one to gird the sword on the newly appointed knights,” Galahad pressed. “It was so for his son and his nephews. Except for Gareth, that is.”  
  
“It was Sire Gareth himself who voiced his request to the King. I just abode.” It seemed such evidence that Galahad would almost blame himself for not seeing that.  
  
“So, if I had simply requested…”  
  
“I would have been the one to dub you,” Lancelot completed. “In my position, the King would not have taken a refusal. Though you should feel blessed to have been consecrated by the King himself, like a member of his own family.”  
  
“You would have refused to dub me? Were I… Your own son?”  
  
“As far as I am concerned,” and there was but the beginning of an apology in Lancelot’s voice, “we are related by blood alone.”  
  
It figured that, if Lancelot was a man of few words, then those were just as swift and precise in aim as the weapon he bore the name of. But Galahad did not back down.  
  
“Not to me! Sir Lancelot, if I may be so bold, I grew up with the tales of your exploits, of your character. I only wished to be–”  
  
“I do not.”  
  
That left Galahad speechless. Either from Lancelot’s confession or his lack of regret; he felt the full blow of it. One _not_ that took the air out of his lungs. And in his chest so large, he heard the empty echo of knights’ laughter, of Gareth’s laughter, the youngest Orkney, he who was lucky enough to have both loves coexisting into his being.  
  
He did not hear Lancelot taking his leave. His head spun back on its own, following like a lasso the knight trotting away, with the same quiet relaxation, as if he had left the weight of that conversation in the dust. Thus, he decided, as the words spilled out of his mouth like a dragon’s fire:  
  
“Running away from me? Away from the Queen?”  
  
He decided to hate this man, just as much as this man decided to hate him, the living proof of the lust that perverted his fellow men. And, hey, might as well enjoy the sin while it was consumed.  
  
“That is why you hate me, right? Because I am what could have been, between the Queen and yourself.”  
  
Lancelot stopped dead in tracks. The horse under him extended the move, the muscles tense, the head low at shoulder-level, creating a line like a sword ready to plunge in the flesh. And he turned to face Galahad, blue eyes crossing his.  
  
From his father, Galahad had inherited everything. Everything but his eyes, a brown so light a hue it could have been mistaken for gold.  
  
His mother’s eyes.  
  
“Because you are what _has been_, Sire Galahad.”   
  
Now that was a reveal Galahad the Pure would take to the grave.


End file.
